


Ditmas

by breakfastforbeginners



Series: NYC Parks [1]
Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Origin Story, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:32:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakfastforbeginners/pseuds/breakfastforbeginners
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finn tries to make a new life in Chicago but finds everything is pretty much the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ditmas

**Author's Note:**

> season 5 answer to Season 6: episode 8 Red Zone

It isn’t exactly chance that lands him at the soup kitchen in St. Paul’s Cathedral.

It’s charity and a lot of catholic guilt.

Father John meets with him the first week he arrives in Chicago; Castro’s got a grip on his elbow as they shake the Father’s hand. It’s been a while since he’s been to church – actually he can’t remember going since he got divorced.

_Just as well_ , he thinks, taking a seat opposite the Father’s desk, his oldest suit crumpling at the waist when he leans into the seat. It feels stifling in the small room and he sneaks a look to his friend. Jimmy’s face is an array of colours in the late afternoon light streaming through the lonely stained-glass window behind the Father’s head.

He’s clutching the worn, wooden arms of the chair and Finn concentrates on relaxing. Father John is going on about Finn’s old parish and the Brothers who work there now – _it was different twenty years ago but isn’t everything?_ – and Jimmy’s sitting there nodding along like he can remember New York.

“So I haven’t seen you boys in Mass for a while.”

Finn and Jimmy exchange an all too familiar look.

“Sorry Father, work’s been kind of busy.”

“Of course. Too many souls need saving,” Father John folds his hands over the swell of his stomach, the shape made by a lifelong love of carbs and his advancing age. “But don’t forget your own.”

Jimmy hides his smile behind a quick scratch of his brow and Finn tries not to sit on his hands like he’s fourteen again and just been caught smoking behind the gents during lunch. The feeling is all too familiar. He fiddles with the knot of his tie.

“Right. Of course, you’re absolutely right, Father. We’ll both be here on Sunday.” Jimmy’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he stands, thrusting a hand out to the old man in the chair opposite. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to take this. Thank you for your time Father John.”

The priest shakes his hand and Jimmy is out of the office before Finn gets the chance to even stand.

Finn bites his lip against the smile that inevitably finds his way on his face. Just like Jim to leave him in the most awkward part. Standing, he buttons the front of his jacket as Father John rises and crosses the room to show him to the door.

“If you find any time between cases, young man, we could always use another pair of hands on Wednesdays at the soup kitchen.” The priest has his hand on Finn’s back as he leads him out and there’s no way he’s getting out of this.

“Seven o’clock?” asks Finn, knowing full well he saw the sign on the parish board when Jimmy pulled the car up fifteen minutes ago.

“I’ll see you then, Mr. Polmar.”

 

…

 

And really, it’s not so bad.

Finn laughs, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. Mrs. Jenkins rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too. She hands another bowl out, her free hand already moving for the next one. The line is fairly steady and Finn goes back to dishing out pasta bake like it’s his life’s calling.

“You should have seen the mess the first time Father John ‘helped out’.”

“Took me a whole week scrubbing out the bottom of that pot,” Fiona points to the enormous soup cauldron Tina is manning at the other end of their line. Finn shakes his head still smiling.

“So what do you do when you’re not making pasta bake, Finley?” Mrs Jenkins moves onto the next stack of bowls, effortlessly passing them out without looking.

“I’m an attorney.” He scratches the back of his neck with his left hand and waits for the women around him to groan. Fiona’s brow rises but that’s the only reaction he gets.

“My son failed right out of law school,” Beatrice is hauling the next pallet of bread across when her husband steps in her way and begrudgingly takes on the load himself. “Got himself in trouble well before that, though.”

There’s a grunt as the bread gets dropped on the foldout tables. “He’s a dentist, dear. It’s not so bad.” Ernie smiles patiently, adjusting his glasses a little higher before sending a look to Finn when he thinks his wife isn’t looking.

“Hey, my uncle’s a dentist!” The only person younger than Finn helping out is maybe fourteen and she has vibrant blue-green hair to match her eyes. Tina’s daughter Harper runs behind them, looking for more cutlery in the kitchen. “You must be rich if you’re a lawyer. What’re you doing here?”

“I’m an ASA, there’s no money in that, Harper.” He watches the ladle in his hand splat out another unappealing gloop of pasta with bacon and cheese. The woman in front of him smiles her thanks with the three teeth she has left. Finn thinks about the three suits he owns and the massive flat screen he just got and realises maybe that’s a bit of a stretch. “Well, not a lot.”

“Well, you’re a good man for helping out anyway.” Beatrice squeezes his arm and winks up at him before helping Ernie butter the bread.

Maybe he is, and maybe _that_ ’s a bit of a stretch, but he doesn’t really know anybody in Chicago yet and he’s already met several people tonight. He hates to admit it, but Jimmy was right. _Splooch_ , the next spoonful gets stickier. “Sorry,” Finn scoops up a little extra and the homeless man with a beard Santa would envy grins back at him.

The worst part is that he never wanted to go back to the church. After Holly separated from him, he was done with community and responsibility and God. All the things that made him part of that life, the life he left behind in New York. It was over and he wanted it to be over.

_New life, new parish_. Jimmy’s words go round his head and he wonders how much time the SA actually spends at St. Paul’s.

 

…

 

  
“ _What do you want?_ ” She’s mad as hell when he calls her late that night. Finn can’t stop the long, deep sigh he breathes out in answer. He knows she hates that, but he’d forgotten just how quickly she jumps down his throat. _This is a mistake_ , he thinks.

“And how are you?”

Being flippant, she hates that. The silence on the other end of the line says everything and he wonders why he bothered calling at all.

“I joined St. Paul’s parish.”

He can hear her moving around, there’s a rustling sound and he realises she’s in bed. _God he’s such an idiot_.

“Okay.” Holly draws out the word and he can imagine her perfectly manicured hand running across her forehead. It’s in that moment he remembers the feeling of lying next to her, the cool material of the pillow under his cheek, the way her skin glowed in the neon light that made it through the blinds.

She hated that he never got them blackout curtains.

“I just thought you’d want to know.” He hesitates, but it slips out anyway. “You know, in case you were concerned for my immortal soul.”

“Great. That’s just great, Finn.”

The silence is suffocating. He sinks further into the sofa, his fingers tight in his hair.

“Is that everything?”

“Yeah.” He hits the read button before he can think it through and change his mind and tell her that he misses her and it’s even colder and lonelier without her. But he’s lost her and this is his life now. That’s everything.

Finn stares at the muted, enormous TV and lets the glow wash over him until he falls asleep.

 

…

 

It’s ten o’clock in the morning on Thursday and he’s staring at his phone.

“I missed you. I’m sorry.”

His pen is limp in his hand and he can dimly hear the office phone go off before Maria gets a chance to answer it. Her voice is a series of murmurs and he just keeps staring at his phone. He can’t stop.

He’s got no idea what this means. If it means anything at all.

“-at eleven. Did you hear me? Mr. Polmar?”

Suddenly he realises Maria is standing at his desk with a post-it in hand. Finn blinks two or three times and takes the sticky note from her, nodding like he’s been buried in work and not staring at a text message from his ex-wife. “Yeah, sorry Maria.”

“Whatever,” She grumbles under her breath and he has to smile to himself.

He clicks the lock screen and tosses his phone into the back corner of his desk. It falls somewhere under reams of yellow notepads and pink post-its (Maria had insisted from day one and who was he to argue) and he wishes he could toss the last year away just as easily.

Finn leans back in his seat and sighs, leaning his head into one hand. He wonders if he can make Mass this Sunday after all before he thinks to read Maria’s post-it.

It says ‘ _Gardner, 11.20 Court Room 4’_.


End file.
